


Fit For a Prince

by Lisztful



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern au, Merlin is a rather hard to please high fashion designer, Arthur is his surprisingly patient and well-read model. Fashion babble and snark ensue, and maybe even love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit For a Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme 8 prompt: "Arthur/Merlin M!AU, Merlin is a tailor. Arthur his best model," and the reply, "Seconded!...Although I would love a fashion designer Merlin even more..." Crossposted to my journal so I can fix typos, etc.

The model is on time, which should have been the first clue that he wasn't the ordinary sort. Merlin's phone buzzes at five before two, his assistant saying, "Your appointment's here."

Merlin's in his workroom, sprawled out on the floor with a length of silk charmeuse laid out beside him. He rests a hand on it, comforted by the smoothness of the fine weave. "Hold him for ten minutes, then send him up," he says, waiting for an affirmative response before he taps the touchscreen, ending the call.

He rolls over onto his stomach, glancing down the line of clear plastic bins lined up neatly along the workroom wall. A nice dupioni catches his eye, and he scrambles up to run a considering hand over it. "Not quite right," he mutters. His vision, still indistinct, is of a simple, sleek dress, and the rough weave of this will read as pulls in the fabric under a runway light.

The silk shantung is promising, smooth and a bit slinky, a nice, warm shade of green. Further down the line, Merlin spots an organza in hunter green, and now he's thinking of a sort of wild, full foresty gown, airy and surreal. Empire waist, he thinks, probably strapless.

That's five minutes gone, a glance at his phone tells him, and he hurries to strip out of his work clothes. The faded jeans and old t-shirt are abandoned in favor of a pair of perfectly fitted skinny cut trousers (his own work) and a close black tee (Armani, perhaps a little obvious of a choice, but the man knows his basic black apparel). He grabs his ankle boots and backs out of the workroom and into his public office while hopping into them and doing up the zips. His blazer, a companion to the trousers, goes over the back of his chair as if casually flung there, and he settles into the seat, tousling his hair where it's possibly gone a bit flat in the back. Showtime.

He hears footsteps a moment later, then his assistant's soft knock.

"Come in," he calls, and Leon opens the door and leans in.

"Your two o'clock," he says, and Merlin waves a lazy arm. "

Send him in," he says, adding "and bring me an espresso, will you?"

Leon nods, pulling the door open the rest of the way and stepping back to admit a tall, blond man.

Merlin crosses his legs neatly, hooking the soft leather toe of his boot behind his calf.

"Come sit," he says, and the blond steps into the room, sparing a moment to glance around at the office's charcoal walls, wide, deep-set windows, and chrome and glass furniture, before settling on Merlin. He allows the gaze because he knows he looks phenomenal, all dark, close clothing and hairstyle that probably cost more than some prime Manhattan real estate (or would have, if the stylist didn't desperately want to shag him) tucked cozily into the rich cream-colored upholstery of his chair. He's not clean-shaven today, and he turns his head a little, allowing the other man a better view of the line of his jaw.

The man strides forward to clasp his hand, saying, "Arthur Pendragon," in a rich, cleanly enunciated voice.

Probably fake, Merlin thinks of the posh tone, taking in his clothes as further evidence. Marc Jacobs tee, good fit, gently v-necked. Worn with dark wash jeans. Citizens of Humanity, straight-leg cut. Small time, Merlin concludes, and reaches for his sketchpad where it lays closed on the low glass table. "This isn't an Abercrombie &amp; Fitch casting," Merlin says dryly, and begins to sketch the green dress in broad strokes.

"I know," Arthur says mildly, but there's a quiet steel in his voice that Merlin rather approves of, in spite himself. "Have a go at my lookbook, won't you? I'm quite versatile." He produces a leather bound portfolio, and Merlin takes it with a sigh, propping it up in his lap over the half-finished sketch.

The first few pictures are standard modeling shots, featuring Arthur in a crisp white button-down and showing front and profile views in varying types of light. Merlin flips through these distractedly, along with a sunny shot of Arthur in surfing gear, and a short magazine spread.

It feels like a lost cause, but then he turns the page and stops, hesitating in a way that he hopes isn't obvious. From the amused sound that Arthur makes, it is. The shot has Arthur clad in tweed, a fedora cocked rakishly on his head and his shirt half unbuttoned. His head is turned slightly, and his gaze is sly, almost mischievous as he looks back at the camera. The clothing isn't particularly inspired, but there's something there, something glimmering just out of reach in the shot. Merlin frowns and turns the page. He really hates being wrong about people.

The rest of the portfolio just convinces him of what he's already sadly aware of. Arthur's good. He's really good, in fact. As classically handsome as he looks in person, dress the man up for the part and he goes fey and mysterious. As it turns out, fey and mysterious is exactly what he needs, and with a few adjustments (get rid of the frosted blond highlights, go for something tawnier, maybe a more classic Hollywood sort of haircut) Arthur could be just right.

"Right," Merlin says abruptly, closing the portfolio with a snap and tossing it onto the table. "I'm not going to pretend I care for your outfit, but at least you had some notion of a theme with the all American designers thing. If you work for me, I dress you, though. Is that a problem?"

"No," Arthur says, reaching for the portfolio and placing it in his lap. He squares off the corners so it's resting in line with his pressed together legs. "I told you, I'm versatile."

Leon knocks again, then, and comes in with two tiny cups of espresso, resting on pristine saucers. He's good like that, always remembering the sort of courtesies that Merlin is vaguely aware of after the fact.

Merlin glances down at his cup, perfect color, thin crema. He swirls it gently, like a glass of wine. "What do you know about my work?" he asks, watching the liquid twist in the little cup.

Arthur turns his saucer a little to the left on the coffee table. "The Times called it a streamlined vision of grotesque urban bohemia. I think that's a bit wordy, but I do agree with the sentiment. I know you specialize in women's wear, and that you're in the midst of preparing for your first all men's line." He stops, taking a tiny, considering sip of the espresso. Merlin immediately downs his like a proper shot, mostly out of a general petulance.

"Your literacy is compelling," Merlin says, reaching for his sketchbook once more. "And your memory, it's a dangerous weapon. Best alert Scotland Yard. At the very least, I hope you've got that on your CV, next to has ability to answer interview questions without any sort of spine whatsoever. Walk for me."

Arthur stands, pulling down on the hem of his shirt where it's gone bunched up. Merlin gets up too, thinking about what he'd like to have him put on. Usually he'd just go snatch something from the back room, but today he's in a strange mood.  
"Come with me," he says, and pulls open the door to the workroom.

He walks straight through to the far end of the room, not looking back to see if Arthur's following. He can hear his footsteps anyway, soft on the concrete floor. The work area once functioned as a rather large painter's studio, and it still has a roomy, vast warehouse sort of feeling. A long table runs down the center of the room, with his fabric bins lining one wall, and notions and other accessories on the opposite side. He has a station with his two favorite sewing machines and a serger set up at one end of the table – he has seamstresses, of course, but he prides himself on his individual work, and most of his pieces are one of a kinds made mostly if not entirely by himself.

On the far end of the room, there's a clear stretch of floor in front of a row of garment racks. There's enough room for Arthur to walk here, and Merlin steps up to the clothing racks, picking through. "You're a what?" he says in Arthur's direction, and he rambles off a list of standard model measurements. "Really?" Merlin says, before he has a chance to think about that. "Your shoulders look a bit broader than that."

"They're not," Arthur says politely, and Merlin tosses a pair of trousers at him. "Start with these," he says, and Arthur looks pointedly around him.

"Here's fine," Merlin says, "Unless you're shy. I can look away, if you like."

Arthur's jaw sets, but when he speaks, his tone is still mild. "That won't be necessary," he says, and strips off his jeans, folding them neatly before stepping into the new trousers. He does up the catch carefully, pulls up the fly, then straightens the waistband against his flat stomach. "Anything else?" he asks, and makes it sound a lot more incriminating than Merlin can ever prove.

Merlin picks out a dress shirt, high, antique looking collar and a nice slim cut. Once Arthur has that on and tucked in a little haphazardly (Merlin tuts at that but actually rather approves. His clothes are best worn a little off center), Merlin digs up a pair of braces from the accessory bin and moves up close behind him to attach the back clips, passing the shoulder straps up Arthur's back and over. Arthur doesn't seem fazed.

"Okay," Merlin says, and hops up onto the table. "Walk." He points down the length of the room. "That way, and make the clothes look like they're supposed to."

All right, so Arthur can really walk. Even Merlin has to admit that his directions were vague to the point of basic nastiness, but Arthur shows the clothes off perfectly, his stride confident and a little rakish, and his features mysterious, but with just a glimpse of come-hither. It's really exactly what he wants.

"Fine, fine," he says gruffly, and waves Arthur back over. "Get dressed."

Arthur places each item back on its correct hanger and hands them back over to Merlin, looking expectantly at him.

"I'm not terribly easy to work for," Merlin says honestly, splaying out a hand on the cutting mat beside him and leaning casually on his arm. He can feel little indentations under his palm from where his rotary cutter has cut into the mat, and it's strangely comforting. "This isn't a one night stand of a job. I'm looking for the face of Emrys Men's, and that's going to involve a lot of different long-term things. He sits up, crossing his legs on the table, and ticking each off on his fingers. "Photo-shoots, possibly publicity spreads, runway work, showings with sponsors and occasional outings with me. Probably more. It'll be demanding. You won't be able to take on any other jobs while you're representing me, and I'll need you here daily for at least the first few weeks for fittings."

Arthur nods. "I'm prepared for all of that."

Merlin can't stand when people aren't unsettled by him. It's rare thing, and even rarer when he's allowing himself to be actively hostile. Most people give him the proper distance an artist needs to create, and they cower a little too, while they're at it. Merlin happens to like good, old-fashioned cowering. Arthur, though. Arthur's unflappable, and it just sets something off in him, an irritating itch of a feeling. He can't help but pick at it, and he shoots off, "One last question. Are you a cocksucker?"

That does it, although possibly Leon would argue that a lawsuit is a bit steep of a price to pay for bringing such a faint flush to Arthur's cheeks.

"I don't believe I need to tell you that," Arthur says a little roughly, "But yes, I am, and no, I don't want to touch yours, not even if it costs me this job."

And the victory is over before Merlin even has a chance to savor it. "That's not what I asked," he snaps. "Look, models have come here to fuck me before, and I'm sure it'll happen again. I'm not saying I'm averse to fucking a model, but if that's your intent you'd do better to find me when I'm off work. I frequent the bar on the corner. If you're serious about this job, I'd better not see you there, not ever. I won't have anyone compromising my work for the sake of a quick shag." There, now he's composed again, and he adds, "Not that I don't understand their interest."

Arthur's cheeks are sucked in a little, the only lingering sign of his anger. "That's not going to be a problem," he says coolly, and stands, extending his hand. "What time tomorrow?"

Merlin looks at his hand for a moment, then grasps onto it lifting it to his mouth and placing a mocking kiss upon his knuckles. "8.30. Sort out the contract with my secretary before you go."

Merlin tries to go back to his dress sketch after that, but the inspiration is inexplicably lost, and he packs up his bag after 30 or so minutes.

"I'm buggering off early," he tells Leon, and does just that, stopping outside the glass doors to his office building to light up a fag. It's too early for the bar, but they serve him anyway, and he lingers over his martini, sketching loose designs onto a pile of cocktail napkins. Inspiration always hits when he's left his sketchbook behind. His ideas are all for menswear now, which is a nice change, since he's been having real problems thinking conceptually of a line that won't include ball gowns or tea dresses. Finally, he's having ideas, and he chooses very firmly to not think about why he's suddenly inspired.

That night he has Gwen and Morgana over for dinner. As usual, this results in Morgana snatching the spoon out of his hand and shooing him out of the way, tending to the curry with the sort of obsessive care that makes her sous-chef career glaringly obvious. Merlin spends a few moments bickering with her about the garam masala, mostly just out of principle, then wanders off to lounge on the sofa. Gwen joins him a moment later, a bottle of wine and a corkscrew in one hand, a pair of wineglasses in the other.

Merlin sits up just long enough to send a disbelieving stare her way. "I know you're not going to open a Merlot for curry when I know there's a perfectly good Riesling out there."

Gwen smiles broadly. "I like Merlot." She twists the corkscrew and deftly opens the bottle, waiting a moment before pouring them each a glass. Merlin takes it, being very clear about his wounded look. Gwen laughs. "Tell me about your day, oh highly particular one."

Merlin tells her about Arthur, sparing no detail about his irritatingly calm demeanor. "I've never seen anything like it," he tells Gwen. It's like he wasn't-" he flings his arm around, searching for the word. "-nonplussed by me. Plussed, maybe. Is that a word?"

Gwen chuckles. "It sounds like he isn't going to put up with you being a wanker. I like him already."

"You're not a very good female companion," he says mournfully. "You're supposed to tell me I'm right and he's unreasonable."

"I'm not your female companion at all," Gwen says. "I'm Morgana's female companion, and I much prefer it that way, thank you. Besides, I know you're lying, because you wouldn't have hired him at all if you really didn't like him."

"It's not my fault the perfect face for Emry's Men's has such a deplorable lack of common decency," he replies, draining his wine.

"Only to you does that logic make any sense at all," Gwen says. "I think he sounds the very picture of well-mannered. You're just upset because you couldn't bully him. Pour me some more wine, Emrys."

He does, ignoring Morgana's snort of laughter from the kitchen. "How was your day?" he asks, because he knows he's not going to make any progress with this argument.

"It was fine," Gwen says. "Two broken arms, a turned ankle, and a couple cases of the stomach flu. Winter injuries are nothing if not predictable. I always thought Accident and Emergency would be terribly exciting, while I was in school. Too much television, I suspect."

"It's worth it," Morgana calls, "So I can tell people I'm married to a doctor."

"So glad my career choice suits your desire to preen," Gwen says dryly. "Come on Merlin, lets go hurry her up. I'm starving."

**

Next morning, Arthur is on time again, this time clad in a slightly less clichéd pair of slim trousers and a rose colored Dolce and Gabbana top.

"I needn't have asked if you were gay," Merlin says, gesturing at it. "Come in, I want to take measurements to start."

Arthur follows him to the workroom, and Merlin gets out the measuring tape and his book of size charts, jotting down Arthur's name at the top of a fresh page. "Right, arms out a little, step away from the table a bit."

Arthur does as he says, watching calmly as Merlin swiftly takes down his numbers. "Yes," he says finally, "And your skinny jeans are just screaming straight man."

"Ooh, he does bite back," Merlin says, unaccountably pleased. "And I'll have you know, Jude Law owns a pair of these."

Arthur shoots him a coy, puzzled look. "And why are you choosing to prove my point?"

Merlin can't resist a dry chuckle at that. "Well played, Pendragon. Here, turn a little."

After that, Arthur is surprisingly tolerable. Merlin has a few partially finished garments, and he fits these on Arthur, noting a few slight changes to the pattern. It's nice to have a real person to fit his garments on. Dress forms never quite get it right. Arthur is a refreshingly quiet companion, too, watching interestedly as Merlin drafts changes into his pattern blocks, then begins to make cuts in a few already selected fabrics.

"I don't know why I'm asking you," Merlin says, around 11.30, but do you like the tweed with the mossy green woven through it or the one with the brown?"

Arthur leans closer, passing his hand over each of the fabrics in question. "The green," he says after a moment.

"Thanks," Merlin says, and he's shocked that he can't come up with anything more clever to say. "Time for lunch, I believe. My treat."

Arthur looks a bit surprised, but he doesn't say no.

Morgana's restaurant is just around the corner. It's a charming Italian place, understated but elegant. It's always full, either business luncheons or dinner dates, but she keeps his table open for him, and he turns up there most afternoons. It's a nice arrangement. Merlin tries to pay without Morgana noticing, Morgana tries to force him to have his meal for free, and she deviates from the menu, bringing him whatever she's in the mood to cook that day. The restaurant owner likes the free publicity, as the tabloids occasionally spot him in the window and drop by to ask inane questions. All in all, everyone's happy.

When they're seated, Morgana herself comes out with the wine list.

"How can you possibly be out here during lunch hour?" Merlin asks her. "Don't you have a job to do or something?"

"Shut it, Merlin," Morgana says brightly. "It's not lunch hour for another twenty-five minutes. Also, you're very rude, bickering in front of your guest like this." She turns to Arthur, extending a hand. "I'm Morgana, Merlin's far superior friend, and also the chef here. Do you like pasta?"

Arthur nods, looking a little confused.

"Oh," Morgana says, "I usually throw something together for Merlin. You're welcome to order from the menu of course, but I'm dying to try out this puttanesca I've been dreaming up. It's just a subtle difference from the traditional recipe, but I think it'll really pop."

Arthur smiles, and it's a bit shocking to see him with such an unfettered expression. "That sounds absolutely lovely," he says, and glances over the wine list. "What about these Spanish reds? They're a bit spicy, yes?"

"Indeed they are," Morgana says. "That'll do nicely. I'll pick a vintage."

She returns a moment later to pour for them, and Merlin shoots him a dirty look. "This is cheap," he says.

"It's good," Arthur replies, not sounding the least bit offended. "Try it."

Merlin does, and while he can't quite bring himself to say that he was wrong, he does manage a little grimace of approval.

Arthur laughs and takes the small victory with remarkable aplomb.

The rest of the week passes in much the same manner. Merlin sketches and sews and wanders around grumbling, and Arthur watches him with a keen eye, is quietly amused, and doesn't bother hiding any of it. They have lunch together, and Merlin attempts to engage him in arguments about whatever comes to mind, sometimes politics, sometimes music or art or books. Arthur deflects it all easily, returning Merlin's remarks with well-reasoned comments and quotations. He's shockingly well educated, and Merlin wonders more than once what he's doing as a male model, but he doesn't ask. That would be rather too sincere.

By week three, Gwen has begun to mock him, fueled by Morgana gleefully acting out his lunches with Arthur, complete with longing gazes and soulful battings of eyes. It has Gwen falling off the couch and nearly spilling the Cabernet, and then Merlin has no choice but to toss a pillow at her, thus declaring full on pillow warfare. Dinner's late that night, but none of them care.

"Remind me why I'm friends with you," Merlin says, as he recovers from a sneak attack pillow to the face.

"You fell in my lap during a party and got my favorite cardigan all snotty," Gwen says. "You cried over some boy for almost an hour, and then I found out you'd only met him that night."

"I was very fragile back then," Merlin says.

"Are you saying you've changed?" Morgana asks archly, and the battle starts all over again.

In the workroom, Arthur slowly begins to talk to him. It's a gradual process, a few idle questions turning into genuine queries. Merlin finds himself gruffly telling Arthur all about his experiences at university, and of coming out (no really, my Aunt said that. She said, "Obviously." Can you imagine?), and of the first frock he ever made (from a tablecloth, total rubbish, but my mum insisted on wearing it out to buy groceries. I thought our neighbor would have a heart attack, she wasn't exactly open minded).

Arthur always listens attentively, although affected narcissism aside, Merlin is a little surprised that someone finds him so interesting. He asks all the right questions, and Merlin finds himself always saying a lot more than he intended to, and a lot more candidly. Merlin chooses not to think about this at all, focusing instead on his work. Things are going well with the line, and Merlin arranges for a promo photoshoot for the following week.

"Diane von Furstenberg rang this morning," Leon says, one afternoon. They've four days before the shoot, and Merlin is working on the finishing touches of the look he wants Arthur to wear.

"Pass me the pins," Merlin says to Arthur, then looks back over at Leon. "And what did she want?"

"She's in town for a few days," Leon says. "She's having a party on Saturday, and she hopes you'll be there."

"Bossy old cow," Merlin says amiably. "Tell her I'm bringing a plus one."

"Are you busy on Saturday?" Merlin asks innocently through his mouthful of pins, once Leon has gone.

Arthur's look is nothing short of charmed. "No, I'm free."

"Will you go to this awful bore of a party with me?" Merlin asks. "I'll finish this outfit for the occasion. You can represent me in all your glory."

"Of course," Arthur says warmly, and Merlin is unaccountably pleased.

On Saturday, he helps Arthur into his new clothes. He's in dark, sleek formalwear, similar to Merlin's own attire. It has a very subtle silvery sheen, and beneath the jacket, Arthur wears a soft, clinging sweater in black. Merlin worries over the trousers for a moment, checking the front creases and staring at the way the fabric slides, before finally declaring him suitable.

"I should hope so," Arthur says, offering Merlin his arm. "You made it."

The party is in a dressed up warehouse, and the whole thing is insufferably trendy. The bartenders are all young and highly attractive, and they're outfitted in some sort of Japanese Street-inspired style (Which is why Diane should never try to be trendy, Merlin thinks. The look appears to have been heavily influenced by America's Next Top Model programmes rerun on payperview, and certainly not in a good way).

Arthur is charming and friendly, and he seems to have a kind word for everyone he meets, even those who are clearly only there to ogle him. He keeps a hand wrapped around Merlin's elbow, and even though he keeps acting huffy about it and introducing Arthur as the face of Emrys Men's, Merlin is almost able to forget that he's here on business.

The upshot of it all is that everyone loves Arthur's look. Michael Kors leans close to examine the lapels, pronouncing it "Classic and sexy." He wanders off without noticing Merlin's sour face, but Arthur does, and he doesn't hesitate to laugh. "You don't like being called classically anything, I imagine." He leans a little closer to whisper in Merlin's ear. "He just tucked a phone number into my pocket. Shall we go toss it in the punch bowl?

"There is obviously no punch bowl at a party like this," Merlin says, and they manage to slip it into a cosmopolitan as one of the waiters sashays by with a full tray, his extravagant hairstyle swaying dangerously.

On the following morning, after a sleepless night of furious sketching, Merlin comes into the workroom a few hours earlier than usual, ready to create a more appropriate look. The photoshoot's in two days, but he's confident he can get it done in time. The cut is similar to the old look, for this incarnation, Merlin chooses heavy tweed and an interesting herringbone, and he knows immediately that it's a better idea. Arthur arrives at his usual time, takes one look at Merlin frantically cutting away at the tweed, and retreats, returning after a few minutes with two coffees.

"You look like you need this," he says, putting it down a safe distance away from the fabric. "Are you really this worked up about Michael Kors? I think Donatella drinking his phone number was punishment enough."

Merlin must really have grown as a person in the past few weeks or something, because he can't stifle his laugh. "No, I'm all sorted on that bit. But this is better. I can't believe I didn't think to go in this direction before."  
"I trust you," Arthur says mildly, and settles in to watch him work. "Let me know when you'd like to put it on me."

Merlin works steadily through the day. He sends Arthur away for a lunch break, nodding in thanks when he returns with more coffee and a sandwich for him. He's too deeply immersed in his work to even mock Arthur on his choice of sandwiches, although he's also chosen exactly what Merlin would have ordered. He takes a fitting, stepping back to take a sip of coffee, then forward to prod at the seams of the trousers and mutter over the waistband.

The end of the workday comes around, but Merlin ignores it. He's got the trousers almost completely constructed, along with the vest Arthur's going to be wearing. The shirt still needs to be put together, though, and he wants to have everything nearly complete by tomorrow so he can spend the day on fitting adjustments and last minute details. "Go home," he tells Arthur, but Arthur ignores him, stretching out on the floor and folding his arms behind his head. "Tell me about your family," Arthur says, and Merlin's a little amazed at how eagerly he complies.

At around midnight, Merlin's just about to press the shirt and blazer and declare himself finished, when he notices a little tear in the center back seam. He looks a little closer, horrified. It's unmistakably there, perhaps a defect in the fabric that he inexplicably didn't notice while putting the pattern together, perhaps the result of a too little seam allowance. His work is normally extremely precise, which just makes it worse. The garment's already lined, so he'll have to rip it all apart to get to the ripped seam. This means most of the progress he's made on the garment is going to be erased, and suddenly, tired and stressed as Merlin is, this feels utterly insurmountable. He lets himself sink to the floor, still clutching the blazer, and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to sob.

He hears Arthur move, but it's still a shock when he feels the warm weight of him, resting just behind him on the floor and clasping Merlin's shoulders with his large, warm hands. "What is it?" he asks, and Merlin maybe sort of falls apart a little, and he is vaguely mortified to find that there are fat tears running down his face, but it doesn't stop him as he chokes out that he's ruined everything, is a failure as a designer, also at life, etc. and is sorry that he's generally so mean. Somehow, he ends up turned around and twisted into Arthur's lap, crying into Arthur's now soggy shirt as he rubs comforting circles over his back.

"I'm vile," Merlin sniffles finally, having exhausted all other sources of self-loathing. "I've gotten your shirt all icky."

"Oh hush," Arthur says, and his hand feels very nice as it comes to rest over Merlin's bowed head. "I don't even really like this shirt, and I don't have a handkerchief to offer you. Anyway it's not like you have acid snot or anything, it won't burn through."

"This is apparently the only way I know how to make friends," Merlin admits in a small voice, and Arthur chuckles and pulls him a bit closer, shifting to lean against the fabric bins.

"Why are you a model?" Merlin asks.

Arthur makes a curious noise deep in his throat, and Merlin feels the rumble against his forehead. "To make my father angry," he says. "I was reading history at Oxford, and he showed up for a surprise visit, only to find me wrapped around my very serious boyfriend. Needless to say, he wasn't exactly approving, and I wanted to do something to show him that his unhappiness with my lifestyle wasn't going to change it. That boy liked to photograph me sometimes, he was an artist, so I decided to give it a try. People always said I was good at it, and it made my father apoplectic."

"So you dropped out of school?" Merlin asks. "That's terribly bohemian of you."

This time Arthur laughs out loud, a full, rich sound. "Oh heavens, no," he says, once he's calmed down a little. "I've a degree. That makes my father even more angry, knowing I'm qualified for a reasonably respectable job and still won't do it."

"Oh," Merlin says, and before he can quite help himself, adds, "Morgana and her wife come over for dinner once a week. It's tomorrow. Would – I don't know if you'd – Do you want to come?"

Arthur exhales heavily, a swift, surprised sound. "I'd like that very much," he says quietly. "But only if I can cook. Now, show me what seams need to be ripped out, and work on your other things while I take this apart for you. We'll be out of here in no time."

That's how Arthur ends up at Merlin's flat on the following evening, deftly chopping up herbs for the Cornish pasties. "Here," he says, passing over the shallots. "Want to work on these?"

Merlin obliges, bemused as usual with Arthur's lack of regard for his snippy demeanor. "What do I do?"

"Just chop them up," he says, "Let out the flavour a bit."

Merlin complies, watching Arthur's steady hands as he works. "How do you know how to do this?"

"It's a local dish," he answers, "My da' didn't cook often, but he did make this. My mum died when I was young, so I don't know, this always makes me think of family. He used to let me help, so I've known how to make it since I was young. Besides our current situation, the biggest row we ever had was when I told him I thought the herbs were a little off."  
"And were they?" Merlin asks.

Arthur smirks. " 'Course they were. He just hates to lose a fight."

When Morgana and Gwen arrive, the food is already in the oven and Merlin and Arthur are squabbling pleasantly over the wine. Merlin is sprawled out on the couch, and Arthur is perched beside him, looking tidy and highly proper. He stands when they barge through the unlocked door, shaking Gwen's hand firmly and kissing Morgana on the cheek.

"It's delightful to meet you," he says to Gwen, "Your wife's a brilliant chef."

Gwen smiles broadly. "I've been so excited about meeting the man who out-bullied Merlin Emrys. Do you know, he's never had a man over for weekly dinner before?"

Arthur's fleeing look shows that no, he didn't know that, but he recovers quickly. "That's because he's insufferable, and I'm vastly more tolerant than most people."

Merlin is left scowling at all of them, until Morgana relents and reaches for the wine.

"I'll just check on dinner," Arthur says, and stands gracefully to go poke at the dishes in the oven. Gwen makes broad ogling gestures behind his back, which Arthur is probably completely aware of.

"I like him," she pronounces in a stage-whisper, and Merlin frowns and shushes her with a hand.

"I like you too," Arthur says pleasantly. "This is ready."

"Arthur," Gwen says over dinner. "Please marry Merlin. You're the first person I've seen be able to put up with him in ages. It's really sort of miraculous."

Merlin chokes on his forkful of leeks and splutters a little, but Arthur just laughs. "He made it quite, er," he coughs. "Clear that he doesn't mix business and romance."

"Oh please," Morgana says, waving her hand dismissively. "That's just because a monstrous twit of a model broke his heart. It was ages ago, but he still acts a huge git as a result of it. Not like we didn't all tell him it was going to happen, the boy wore hotpants."

Arthur glances over at him, looking a little surprised, but when he speaks, it's his usual warmly polite tone. "He is a bit of a git, isn't he?" he says, then smoothly changes the subject to Gwen's job. Merlin shoots him a thankful look.

Gwen and Morgana don't stay long that night, and Merlin is thankful for it, despite their parting remarks of "Please marry him," and "Please get over yourself and shag him," to which he replies by slamming the door in their faces. He returns to the sink, where Arthur has his shirtsleeves rolled up and is washing the dishes, picking up a tea towel and reaching for a plate.

"I'm sorry about them," he says. They're a bit pushy."

Arthur looks over at him, his shocked expression the very picture of innocence. "I'm sorry, but are you apologizing for something?"

Merlin knocks shoulders with him. "Don't push your luck."

Arthur grins and leans into the contact. He's done with everything but the utensils, and he starts on those, carefully scrubbing each fork and knife in the sudsy water before rinsing them and passing them to Merlin one at a time. "It's all right," Arthur says, "It seems like they just want you to be happy."

Merlin shrugs uncomfortably and watches Arthur's fingers leave trails in the soapsuds.

"Is it true, the things they said?" Arthur asks idly.

Merlin looks away. "The boy thing? Yeah."

"Oh," Arthur says. "Oh." Merlin can feel his gaze as he looks over. "I like you, you know. I mean, maybe you don't know, but I do. I know what you said at my interview, rather rudely I might add, but I'm not in this for a quick shag. I like you, and that includes every prickly, disdainful, brilliant thing about you. Now, I'm going to go, and if you don't want this, or you're scared, or anything else, then tomorrow at the photoshoot we'll go on like nothing happened. I won't be any less professional, I love your clothes no matter what. But if this is something you'd like to try out, let me know tomorrow."

Merlin sucks in a breath, stammering a little. "I can't- I don't kn-" He cuts off with a startled noise as Arthur's soapy hands come up to cup his face, and then Arthur is leaning in and kissing him, which tastes a bit like Cornish pasty but is still ridiculously, sickeningly lovely.

"Good night, Merlin," he whispers, pulling away, and a moment later he's striding out the door with his coat tossed casually over his shoulder. Merlin stands at the sink for a long time, soapsuds trailing down his face.

Merlin is up most of the night, and when he drags himself out of bed on the following morning, he still can't quite think about the day ahead of him. He drags on his favorite trousers, opting for a sort of tousled, just-shagged look that actually takes far longer than it seems like it ought to. He leaves the top button of his shirt undone, and that's pretty daring for Dior.  
The hair and makeup people are already set up when he arrives at the studio they're using for the shoot. There are a few people scattering props around and dimming various lights, and Arthur's seated off to the side in a close cut grey tee, his nose tucked into a battered paperback.

"Wilde?" Merlin asks with a raised brow, flicking the spine.

"I need to sharpen my wit, if I'm to keep up with you," Arthur replies, closing the book. "Good morning."

Merlin finds himself smiling helplessly down at Arthur's sunny countenance. "Come on, lets get you dressed and made up and all. He offers Arthur a hand, and he takes it, not letting go even once he's standing. His fingers are warm and firm where they press against Merlin's palm, and it's a curiously pleasant sensation. Merlin leads him to a more secluded area and passes him his clothes, not really bothering to pretend he's not watching as Arthur strips and steps into the new garments. "Have you thought about what I said?" he asks, straightening the collar of his shirt.

Merlin steps forward to fix his cuffs. "Yeah. Look, I don't think I'm a very nice person."

Arthur cocks his head a little. "Go on."

Merlin shrugs, going a little red. "I just think you should know, if we're going to date or whatever. I'm not good at being nice. I think I've almost forgotten how."

Arthur grins broadly. "Don't worry, I'm a good teacher, and I'm extremely nice. Are you sure about this, though? I don't want to force you into something that makes you uncomfortable."

"Strangely," Merlin replies, "I find you extremely compelling. I'd like to snog you, but I think It'll have to wait until we're not surrounded by people."

"All right," Arthur says, and turns to lace his shoes. In a moment, though, he's whipping back around to grab Merlin's wrist. "Fuck it," Arthur says, and wraps his hand around the back of Merlin's neck, pulling him in for a deep, rough kiss. They only break apart when the catcalls begin, Arthur looking a little sheepish. "Sorry," he says. "I'm maybe a little less patient than I pretended."

"It's all right," Merlin says, a little breathlessly. "Now go look fabulous for me. We'll snog some more after, okay?"

Arthur grins and drops a kiss on Merlin's knuckles, a strange reversal of Merlin's own actions on the day they met. "Of course," he says smoothly. "For Emrys Men's. And for you."


End file.
